Cold Steel (26 page)

'So they were going on with these trials,' Clancy said angrily, 'in the full knowledge some patients were dying from side effects?'

'From what you've told us that would seem to be the case,' said Walters. 'I think they were constantly modifying the molecular structure of the compound, trying to find the right formula to give clinical benefits but none of the deadly side effects.'

'And how many patients would have to die before that ideal compound evolved?'

Walters rocked from side to side in his swivel chair. 'I don't know the answer to that, Frank. But your arrival here suggests they're no closer.'

'And,' added Ken Foss, 'Cynx finances must be running out. There's talk in the trade of a takeover bid from one of the bigger multinational pharmaceuticals. My guess would be they're showing false research results to boost the sell price. Certainly Cynx shares have been driven upwards on the NYSE recently.'

Clancy squinted at his watch. It was six forty-five. He'd have a helluva race to catch the flight. He turned to Walters. 'Can you explain why Speer assists at specific heart operations? Like, what's the connection between drug trials and these operations?'

'My understanding,' explained Walters, 'is that this compound was being tested on diseased arteries in the laboratory as well as on humans in the wards. I believe Speer was harvesting the damaged blood vessels. That's why she assisted at operation. She could assess them as they were being removed ensuring they had ideal pathological specimens to work on. She recovered them from the theatre sluice, iced and couriered them to the labs at Cynx overnight for testing.'

'With Dan Marks' approval?' asked Clancy.

Walters shook his head. 'Can't say that for certain, Frank. Certainly Marks and Speer had a very hot sexual relationship going on when they were here.'

Clancy's eyebrows shot up.

'You know yourself, Frank,' Walters was smirking, 'these surgeons are powerful men. Big egos, strong sex drives. He was married to an invalid. It was inevitable he was going to stray.'

The plot was becoming complicated. Frank Clancy noticed he was perspiring and wiped at his forehead with the shoulder of his T-shirt. 'What about Stone Colman?'

'We've nothing definite on him,' Bawden cut across. 'Speer's involvement seems without doubt. We can't be sure of the other two.' He put away his notebook. 'Linda Speer has been trying for years to make her name in cardiology. She resented bitterly being passed over in career
moves. Maybe she decided on a different route to the top. Thought she could produce the heart drug of the future.'

Ken Foss spoke. 'You see, Frank, unlike you we have little physical evidence to confirm our suspicions. The paper copy medical records were changed, we're certain of that, but we don't have the originals. There's confusion about the tablets. We only recovered one and it's currently undergoing biochemical analysis.' He tugged at his jacket to straighten its creases. 'More disturbingly, someone accessed our back-up database. The back-up database is the power house of any hospital's records system. If information is altered there, all original observations, treatments and drug reactions are lost for ever.'

Clancy's brain went into overdrive. Had that happened already in Dublin?

'You'll have a difficult job proving your case if whoever's involved destroys the trail,' Foss finished.

Sam Bawden slipped of his jacket and rested it over his seat. He turned towards Clancy. 'We've been following the murder investigation of Dan Marks' daughter.' The words were spoken casually but the room fell suddenly silent. Clancy looked from one to the other, noticing the intense stares.

'And?'

'It's a terrible business,' Bawden offered.

'Yeah,' replied Clancy slowly. What the hell's coming next. 'Real terrible.'

'You don't think there's any possible connection?' Bawden sounded embarrassed at his own suggestion.

Clancy's mouth dropped. 'Do you?'

'No, no, no,' Bawden hastened to reassure. He didn't sound reassuring. 'Maybe it's my suspicious nature.' He tried to smile to hide his discomfort. It didn't work. 'Forget what I just said.' He looked at his watch. 'You're gonna miss that flight.'

Frank Clancy leapt to his feet. It was three minutes before seven o'clock. He prayed his plane might be
delayed. He knew he had to confront Linda Speer before the press conference. He knew the EEC grant hinged on results from the Mercy Hospital Heart Foundation. But to Clancy everything coming out from that top level now stank. No result could be trusted. Everything was tainted by greed and manipulation. And murder.

Harry Walters booked a Springton Hospital emergency car to rush Clancy to the airport. 'Be careful, Frank,' he warned as the door was closed. 'The stakes are high in this game. Whoever's behind this is in too deep to pull back. Keep looking over your shoulder. Play safe.'

Clancy played safe and looked over his shoulder all the way to Logan. As far as he could make out the car wasn't being followed.

'Where are they?' he screamed at his mother-in-law. He was in a call booth at the airport. He'd missed his flight but had rebooked on a Virgin Atlantic to London, with a connecting Aer Lingus from London to Dublin.

'Frank Clancy,' he was rebuked sharply, 'don't you dare shout at me like that. Do you know what time it is?'

Clancy mumbled his apologies. He'd forgotten about the differing time zones. His heart was pounding, from excitement or effort or both he couldn't be sure. He thought it would lift right out of his chest.

'They went back to their own house.'

Oh no, Clancy groaned. 'When?' He couldn't stop himself shouting.

'After you rang.' The mother-in-law was working herself up to some righteous indignation. 'And I may as well tell you, Frank, judging by your behaviour recently you may not be allowed join…'

Clancy hung up and dialled his home number as fast as his trembling fingers would allow. In the background he heard the final call for the Boston/London flight announced. It was now nine thirteen.

'Hi, this is Frank and Anne's number. We're sorry we can't take your call right now but…' He hung up as soon
as he heard the answering machine, thought furiously, then redialled.

'Hi, this is Frank and Anne's number…'

'Anne, Anne,' Clancy screamed into the mouthpiece. A lady waiting in line for the booth moved away. She kept staring uneasily at the shouting man's back. 'If you're listening Anne please pick up the receiver. PLEASE!'

'…if you'd like to leave your name and number…'

In the department terminal the PA clicked into action again. 'Would passenger Frank Clancy booked on Virgin Atlantic to London please go immediately to boarding gate seventeen. This is the last call for passenger Frank Clancy. Please go to gate seventeen immediately. Passenger Frank Clancy.'

A last, desperate throw of the dice. Clancy tried reaching administration at the Mercy Hospital. The switchboard operator apologised. 'I'm sorry but there's no one answering from admin. It is very early in the morning you know.'

His heart sank.

'Are you Frank Clancy?' Clancy spun round. One of the Virgin ground staff was looking at him. The girl's expression suggested she was dealing with a madman. Clancy forced himself to relax, trying to put on some facade of normality.

'I'm coming.'

He sprinted towards gate seventeen.

35

2.37 am,

Wednesday, 20 May.

As Frank Clancy boarded the Virgin Atlantic jet, back in Dublin events were moving to a climax. Two miles south of Mercy Hospital and across the blackness of the River Liffey, the Goon was working into the early hours in a lock-up garage. His metallic black Lincoln had been clipped on the left rear bumper when he'd reversed angrily away from the railway station after the failed confrontation with Joan Armstrong. That had upset him. When he'd returned without the girl, Mo had been very disturbed. Mo had warned the Goon how worried he was about Joan Armstrong. And the Goon so hated to see Mo annoyed. And Frank Clancy was making life even more difficult. The Goon couldn't find him. And he didn't like that. Mo didn't like it either. At all. The Goon decided enough was enough. Time for action.

Now he filled and carefully touched up the dent. In the light of a two-hundred-watt bulb dangling from a beam he admired his handiwork. Perfect. He opened the boot and checked his trade tools. Binding tape: black, heavy-duty, thick and strong. Four rolls. Enough, he reckoned, to secure struggling legs and arms and cover mouths. Black leather gloves, tight, conforming. Two pairs in case he lost one in the encounters. Walther PPK .38 double-action automatic handgun with full magazine. He
un
clipp
ed
the magazine, checked it was full, then clipped it back onto the
main frame. He pressed a side panel in the car boot and a recessed area lit up. He slipped the gun and rolls of tape inside. From his hip pocket he produced a flick knife and released the catch. A thin, razor-edged six-inch blade shot forward. The Goon admired its steel as it glinted in the light. Satisfied, he eased the blade back. He'd already decided only to use the handgun in an emergency. It was too noisy. The Goon preferred the silence of the knife. He looked at his watch. Mo had said everything would be over soon. Mo had told him to take care of all loose ends. Joan Armstrong. Frank Clancy. Clancy's family if necessary. The Goon was happy to agree, easy meat. Like taking candy from a baby. Except he'd lost track of Clancy and his family. Until a few hours ago when he'd spotted lights back on in the house. The loose ends had returned. Tidy up time. He unrolled a heavy-duty, extra-wide black plastic bag and laid it carefully along the bottom of the boot making sure enough of the edges were turned up. The Goon hated it when blood leaked onto the upholstery. He'd also modified the back seat so it could be split and moved forward easily. For long bodies that didn't fit easily into the boot. Finally he hid a baseball bat and two sealed cans of petrol behind the passenger seat.

The Goon was ready for the final push.

3.02 am

Sweat poured off the face and forehead and body of Joan Armstrong. She was prostrate on her bed at home, staring at the ceiling, then at the digital clock on her locker, counting the minutes away. Her body ached, she was trembling. She slumped back on the soaked sheets and tried to sleep. Sleep wouldn't come. She rocked backwards and forwards, then doubled up and grasped her knees tightly against her chest. She needed a hit badly. She rubbed at the entry tracks on the bends of her elbows, trying to imagine the
sting of the needle, the rush to the brain. She needed Mo. Mo would give her whatever she wanted. She would give Mo whatever he desired. In her desperation she even wished the Goon would turn up.

4.47 am

The Goon snipped the telephone wires to Frank Clancy's house. He'd parked the Lincoln behind the two other cars in the paved driveway. It had been a tight squeeze and almost four feet of the metallic black car jutted onto the footpath. Still, he reasoned in the gloom, it's only for about ten minutes. He disarmed the burglar alarm, cut through the back door glass and slipped the bolts. Four minutes later he was inside the house. He stood still and listened. Nothing. Slowly and stealthily he padded into the front hallway and stopped. And listened. Nothing.

He unrolled the binding tape and cut off three slices. Two were of equal length, one was a shorter strip. Tiptoeing gently to the first bedroom he lifted child number one, eight-year-old Martin. The sleeping body barely stirred as binding tape was wrapped around ankles. When the Goon started prising the Manchester United soccer team scrapbook from the boy's hands, he woke up. In the gloom Martin tried warding off the enveloping tape and was caught on the side of the head by a closed fist. Fifty seconds later he was lying on his side downstairs, bound hand and foot, mouth taped. The soccer scrapbook was caught up in the strapping. Three minutes later Frank Clancy's struggling four-year-old daughter Laura was laid alongside her brother. The little girl's terrified eyes flitted as she rolled her head from side to side, trying desperately to free her face from the binding.

The children watched with horror as the tall shape sprinted back up towards their sleeping mother. Tears streamed but the sobs were muffled. Anne Clancy was half
in and half out of the bed when the Goon pushed the door open. She started to scream. A closed fist across the side of her head stunned and stopped her dead. The flick knife was sprung, the steel blade glinting in the darkness. The Goon came closer. CUT, CUT, CUT. Three strips of tape were produced. Anne Clancy's hands and feet were bound. Groggily she looked up to find the black band coming closer. She started to scream again but it was stifled. The tape was forced across her mouth.

5.06 am

Anne Clancy and her children lay trussed up in the kitchen, squirming in a frantic attempt to free themselves. The Goon was pulling the house apart looking for her husband.

'Where's the fucker?' he snarled into the young woman's face, the flick knife waved threateningly at Laura's throat. He released the tape to let her speak.

'At work,' Anne lied through terrified sobs. 'He's at the hospital.'

The Goon kicked the back door angrily, breaking more glass. 'Well, you're coming with me 'til he turns up.'

He sneaked outside, checking he wouldn't have to deal with some public-spirited neighbour. The road was deserted, the nearby windows still curtained off from the breaking dawn. He opened the car boot and right back door.

5.09 am

Laura first, into the boot. Pushed up against the rear seats. Martin next, struggling. A threatening fist stopped the boy's movements. Terrified eyes watched the boot close down.

5.11 am

The writhing body of Anne Clancy was pushed onto the floor space between front and rear seats. She lashed out desperately as door engaged on lock but succeeded only in breaking her left big toe against the panel. She winced with pain.

The Goon started the engine as softly as he could and eased the Lincoln onto the road. He checked for activity. Nothing. He looked along the upstairs windows of adjoining houses. No movement. He smiled, then flicked on a tape to drown out the dull thuds of kicking feet. Seven minutes later he was on one of Dublin's main traffic arteries, speeding away. The roads were relatively quiet. The Goon stopped at every red light, taking care not to go too fast or lane hop. Mo had cautioned against drawing attention to the car. As he crossed the River Liffey, past early-morning news-vendors setting up their stalls, the Goon felt good. Everything was going to plan. Mo would be pleased. And it would all be over soon. A hint of early-morning sun danced off one of the buildings in the steel-and-glass International Financial Centre. It might be a nice day, thought the Goon. This could turn out to be a very good day.

6.07 am

Anne Clancy and her children were lifted one by one and laid on the basement floor of Mo's residence. The Goon was panting from the effort and sweat beaded along his brow and moustache. He set twelve plastic beakers full of bottled water on the floor near them. Each beaker had a long straw sticking out. Then he checked that nothing could be used to free strapped limbs. Satisfied, he ripped the masking tape from the children's mouths, ignoring the terrified faces wincing at him.

'You can scream and shout all you fucking well want.' His perspiring face was stuck up against Anne Clancy. 'No one will hear.' He flicked at an edge of tape, then slowly peeled it away from the young woman's mouth. Anne Clancy spat at him. Surprised, the Goon backed away, then grinned. 'You want to be careful,' he warned. 'I could break your neck right in front of your kids.'

He paused at the basement door. It was made of reinforced steel. He dragged it shut, plunging the small room into blackness. 'See ya later.'

9.00 am

Forensic psychiatrist Dillon informed Jim Clarke he was planning to roll the dice. 'This could drag on for weeks,' he explained over the telephone. Clarke was up and dressed and halfway out the door when Dillon made contact. Maeve hovered in the background, trying to eavesdrop. She had wanted to stop her husband going to work after she'd heard about the confrontation the previous day. Clarke was having none of it. 'This is one case I've got to see through,' he growled over breakfast. He ignored the disapproving frown at the other side of the table. 'It's got to be decided by six this evening. Kelly's either in or out.'

Still, the call from Rockdale took him off guard. 'I've set up a reconstruction in Sandymount Park,' Dillon informed. 'Three o'clock this afternoon.' Clarke checked his schedule and agreed. 'This could fall either way,' the psychiatrist warned. 'There are no guarantees. It's a gamble, but I'm going to run with it.'

Clarke mumbled his uncertainties.

'What other choice do we have?' asked Dillon. Clarke said nothing. 'Regan's going to condemn Kelly to the world this evening. This is our last chance to find the truth.' By ten minutes past nine the outline plan was agreed.

Clarke cancelled the morning and elected to wait at
home and rest. It's out of my control now, he thought. It's up to Dillon. And Kelly. He sat down at the kitchen table and poured a fresh mug of tea. Maeve smiled at him and he even managed a weak smile back. 'It'll be over tonight,' he promised. He unclipped his personal revolver and hid it in a biscuit tin in the crockery cupboard. I won't be needing that today.